Lines Written Beneath a Tree

Maybe I can't get over 
this blue dialogue of mouth to sky. 
The way sadness tastes 
like a wet cigarette. 
My sex is a rosette 
always opening for you. 

Leaves resemble wilting breasts. 
Only the flies offer my bare arms 
their flittering touch. 
Your skin still eludes me. 

I would have you rustling inside me 
as the hologram flickers on the wall. 
Though infinitely unreal 
it still looks, shimmers like love.